A Taste of Things to Come
by ameliapemerson
Summary: Hello. This is a ficlet surrounding the events of S3 E1's "Now Come and Kiss Me" scene. Based in Patsan's tumblr #hashtag "Did Matthew ever get that kiss..." Ch 3: The events play out... Please be kind and review! I so hope you like it! Thanks so much to Patsan for all our conversations on this scene! Sooo helpful!
1. Chapter 1

_Hi! This is my first real semi-long canon era fic. It's mostly completely canon in thought and action. More of a fill in the spaces in the "Now Come and Kiss Me" scene from S3 E1. I have lots of thoughts about that scene. And as you can see in this (hopefully not too rambly) opening chapter on some of the events that surround the long and winding road of MM's courtship. And yes… I am writing largely from Matthew's perspective. I am considering writing the next chapter from Mary's… we'll see how this all goes. But the end is going to be in that drawing room with Matthew's invitation and an attempt to explore the meanings and motivations behind Mary's reluctance. All this started with Patsan's tumblr #hashtag on whether Matthew got that kiss. I don't quite have an answer yet… but hopefully by the end of this ficlet I will! Please Please Please review. This is a personal view of course of these events. Of course the characters belong to Julian Fellowes._

XX

Matthew dressed methodically. Molesley had laid out his clothes and was currently fussing with the lint brush and muttering under his breath. For once Matthew was unbothered by Molesley's careful management of his clothes and appearance.

Matthew wanted to look his best this evening. His thoughts were far away from the tie he affixed around his neck. Preparation. The key to success. One of the things he learned while in the Army.

Although that sometimes ended catastrophically. He furrowed his brow at that thought.

He knew full well that he and Mary still had differences. Such as where to live. His desire –seeming impossible amongst the Crawley clan - to live a simpler life. Such as the money. That damned Swire inheritance as he was now thinking of it. Already seeming to create a rift between them. Why was she so interested? He knew in his soul that he would never accept the money. Blood money. That would destroy their marriage before it began. Talk about 'kicking the traces.'

He pushed such judgments from his head. This evening would be different.

Two nights previous he had decided a change of strategy was needed. A well timed operational plan of the type he had engaged in the army. Only this time the endgame was to be alone with Mary.

For two nights ago, he barely had time to say a private good night before his mother accused him of dawdling with her insistent "Matthew! Do come on!"

He shook his head. It had been a typical evening meal at Downton of the type he had endured since the inheritance fell into his lap over eight years previous. Although since the war he had come both to appreciate the continuity of a family meal while at the same time trying to make the point that such formality and decorum spoke of a bygone age that had encouraged a type of arrogant assumption of class and power that had gotten a generation of good men killed.

That had not gone over all that well. So after a few attempts to engage Robert in such a discussion over cigars, Matthew had given up. They would find it out soon enough. The world Robert wanted was gone. Matthew was more than ready to let it go.

Except that Mary, even as she would rail against it, was more of a creature of tradition than she admitted. No real surprise, Matthew realized, especially given that the one truly scandalous action in her life -one he only very recently knew the entire truth of- left her scarred and afraid. Afraid, not really even for herself, but that she would be the cause of scandal against her family, against the Crawley name. Willing to be engaged to a man who used her most ill for his own professional and social climbing aims. For that Matthew would never forgive.

Matthew realized he had to tread carefully. The last thing he wanted was for Mary to be uncomfortable with him in the days leading up to their nuptials.

But he had to be alone with her.

This dinner finally ended after a long discussion on the repercussions of Sybil and Tom's return to Downton as well as the daunting visit of the "other" grandmother Grandmamma Levinson from America.

The seating arrangements at formal meals always befuddled Matthew. He never quite understood the protocol. That evening had seated him away from Mary. So he had very little time to be alone with his fiancee.

So the walk across the saloon became the only opportunity for any intimate conversation.

He had walked leisurely with Mary to the door. They had flirted outrageously. It was intoxicating to be able to say his thoughts in public.

And then, "The chauffer's freezing to death and so am I."

He loved his mother dearly, but sometimes she was willfully blind to the fact that he was going on 35 years of age. A veteran of the Great War. A man who had seen a great deal that he could not talk about. Had experienced more than he ever wanted to reveal to another living soul.

He acknowledged her with a nod, then proceeded to ignored her.

Instead his gaze preferred to take in Mary. "Are you looking forward to the wedding?" Mary rewarded him with an enticing sidelong smile.

"What do you think?" She played along.

"I'm looking forward to all sorts of things." His mouth danced as the words escaped his lips. They pursed and curved into a smile as she furtively smirked at his suggestive comment.

She had started it he almost reminded her. On their walk of the previous morning. When she said that her father was "So relieved we're getting married, he wouldn't mind if you carried me up naked."

He almost did a double take as he strolled beside her. "Careful I might try it." An understatement if he ever spoke one. Given the chance he would so that very evening.

But alas he was not be given that chance.

So instead he leaned in closer. He could feel long strands of her hair against his cheek. Brushing it. Gently. Driving him wild. He shivered in anticipation of the few remaining days between then and the wedding night. How was he to endure it?

"Don't make me blush." Mary had whispered as he leaned in further to graze her cheek with a kiss.

"Matthew!" His mother turned. Her voice turning annoyed even as she maintained a proper smile.

He sighed. Turned to give a private look to Mary and gave in to the inevitable. He moved towards the front door to take his mother home.

But not before he acknowledged Mary's challenge.

He gave her long gold and bejeweled necklace a delicate but deliberate tug. Glanced up to meet her eyes.

An ever imperceptible flush crossed her cheek. He smiled as he clocked her reaction. Just what he wanted.

A hint of things to come. A secret message that he understood she equaled his desire to be on their own.

That was when he began to plot his next visit.

A plan to be alone with his beloved fiancee. Unchaperoned. He knew they were expected back for dinner in two days hence. For Sybil and Tom's return. That would be perfect.

Everyone would be distracted by those two. He could make a move to stay a little extra late in the evening. If he played the cards correctly they would have some time together. He would duck out of cigars with Robert early. Tell the chauffer not to wait for him. To let the driver take his mother home alone.

He knew all too well the rules of the society in which he now found himself. Even so he found it more than a little ridiculous that he was shadowed at all times around Mary. He understood -of course he did. Especially in light of what she told him. The fear of scandal that had ruled her life. A scandal he suspected nothing about. Until he knew all too much. He wanted so much to take that burden from her. Damn Pamuk. But even more damn Carlisle for his scandal sheets. He knew and had said to her that she was strong. "A stormbraver."

He maintained his insistence upon a short engagement time. Violet had of course wanted them to wait. But Matthew wanted to be Mary's husband when /if any scandal arose. He wasn't sure what he could do other than offer strength support and love. And proof that he wasn't going anywhere. That the ghost of Pamuk would never part them.

Once married he could become as much her support as she had been his. "You are my stick." He had said. That night. That dance. The night when everything had changed.

He wanted to have no impropriety. He wanted her to feel secure in his arms.

But he needed time alone with her.

The walks on the estate were not enough. He found it greatly ironic that Cora allowed those walks at all.

Fleeting moments of time they needed to get to know one another. "To learn about who we both are without everybody being there."

Not the family. Nor the ghost of Lavinia. Or more particularly the guilt of Lavinia's death that descended upon Matthew.

Damn this money. He didn't want this inheritance. He never asked for anything from Reggie Swire. He believed Matthew had been true to Lavinia when he knew better. He resisted the urge as he dressed for Sybil and Tom's dinner to go down the self-tortuous path of reminding himself just how unworthy he was: of Lavinia's trust, of the money, unworthy perhaps of the happiness he and Mary shared. For he had tried to push some of the blame on her. And for that he could never forgive himself. He was to blame.

Now-even as he had promised neither the ghost of Pamuk nor Lavinia would be a barrier to their happiness—it seemed to be happening. The fragile happiness they had felt. The indescribable happiness he felt.

He never knew such happiness could be bestowed on him. He would not have believed it in the war. In the stench. Sitting for long hours as the guns pounded, the artillery returned fire. Betraying Lavinia as he looked at her picture while he tugged with his fingers at the toy dog in his pocket. Like everyone else in the trenches he had prayed for death to come cleanly. In his darkest moments to have death come quickly. That he would not see any more of his men, his fellow officers, his friends die or be horribly mangled in some God forsaken fashion.

And he had not emerged from the war unscathed. The inevitable nightmares. The spinal injury. The fear of impotency. He knew so little as to why Lavinia returned to him as she did. With Carlisle that day. Was it all manufactured he now suspected? How stupid he was not to suspect such a thing from that bastard.

But Lavinia deserved nothing but affection. They were perhaps both duped by the man. And since he saw no future with Mary—he wanted to set her free—as he had said and believed—he was the cat who must walk (what irony) by himself.

He wasn't proud of the way he had handled things. The miracle of learning it was a bruised spine. The hasty (and perhaps ill thought) re-engagement to Lavinia He needed to get away. Away from Downton. Away from Mary's engagement to another man. He had no future there. He dwelled on those thoughts too much. Lavinia had said as much in the last real conversation they had had… and he had responded—showing where his thoughts truly laid: "Mary's marrying someone else." How stupid he had been to let those words slip from his mouth. Another betrayal. That he thought of her. That he still thought only of her.

Like the dance. The revolving spinning sensation that they were the only boy and girl in the world. The frisson in their connection. He felt it through his core being. He was the one who asked her dance. He held out his arms in precise position. He willed her into them. She had been reluctant. He had spoken the words of apology. The first time he could say them in her presence with no one less listening in.

But also the last time they would be together. He had to say them. The next day he thought he was to be wed. That it was the correct thing to do. Then it all came spilling out, Violet's admission that Mary was still in love with him; that he was only marrying Lavinia out of (misplaced?) honor… that he could not throw her over "however much he might want to."

Their lips, moving steadily closer, his hand guiding hers to his shoulder. Her delicate, gloved fingers entwined in his once again. In his nervous haste his lips just tasted the corner of her mouth. Her lips barely opened. They knew it was wrong. They knew it was inevitable the more they existed in each other's lives.

He had been going on instinct the entire dance. Instinct led him to take her in his arms. A hungry need to hold her, to possess her once again. One last time. A burning ache of physical passion that would not have been quenched by that siimple kiss. How utterly blissful it all was until... until Lavinia's querulous and subdued "hello" shattered what was left of his belief that he was an honorable man.

His own hollow words... "I can explain" were cut him off by her with the truth. How utterly worthless his attempt to salvage the situation "I won't let you do this." Then the self-pitying guilt set in after she died. At the graveside, standing next to Mary. The anger and bitterness towards Mary really reflective of his own worthlessness. He had discovered a side to his personality that he found hard to shake. The guilt intermingled with the grief.

Such gloomy, bitter thoughts he did not need this evening. As he allowed Molesley to slip his arms into the dinner jacket, he convinced himself in the veracity of happiness. That he deserved it. That he would earn it through his enduring love for Mary.

The self-condemnation had subsided. The war's scars were healing. Mary's love healed them. He had found his courage to ask for her hand in marriage. "To do me the honour of becoming my wife." And it was an honour and privilege. They had been through so much. So much he had not known about. She had lived a life without him and he without her for long enough. It was more than enough time for them "to live it together." It had been so beautiful that night. The snow filtering the world away.

He had been so uneasy to ask. Had virtually left it to the last moment. After Robert and Cora and her sisters had gone to bed. To find her alone outside. She might say no. She might go to America. But she didn't. She accepted him. She smiled and broke her façade of propriety as she made him kneel in the snow. He lifted her up in his arms. She was as light as air. They twirled as the snow fell around them. He would never forget the perfection of that night.

Oh how he needed to be alone with her. To begin to confide in her these thoughts that filled his brain. It frustrated him that Mary wanted to live at Downton. He already felt so confined there. Like the stiff collared evening suits, Downton constrained him. Made him less than who he used to be.

The very order of the place bothered him. In this new age. It was a place out of time. But he was willing to try for Mary's sake. It was her home. For a woman that he knew did not always "conform to the fitness of things," Downton fit her like a glove. It would be tearing away a part of her. And that he would never do that.

But this night. This night he would find the time to be alone with her.

Molesley tunelessly hummed as he put away his brush in the dressing cupboard. Matthew continued to fiddle with the white tie.

He glimpsed outside. It was raining. Not a great sign. But he remained resolute in his determination.

Tom and Sybil's presence was an omen. A couple that was perhaps his inspiration for being a little rebellious about getting Mary alone tonight. They just went and did what they wanted. Ran off to Ireland. Got married. He admired them. Looked forward to getting to know Tom better. He needed male allies in this family.

He finished dressing to Molesley's satisfaction. Walked down the steps to greet his mother and help her into her coat. They exited Crawley House and made their way to the waiting car. The new chauffer helped Isobel in while Matthew got in the other side.

He bristled with anticipation for what the evening had in store. And no matter the outcome, he would see his beloved Mary. And that, in and of itself, was worth everything he owned in the world.

XX

_The actual events of the evening play out in the next chapter_.


	2. Chapter 2

_Mary's perspective. Not something I take lightly, or easily. She's such a wonderfully complicated individual. I do think the events leading up to that late night when the two of them alone are so important to how each reacts to Matthew's request to engage in some intimacy. They really really do carry more baggage than the porters at Kings Cross…_

XX

Mary finished up dressing for dinner. In addition to Sybil and Tom as house guests, Matthew and Isobel would be over from Crawley House. The wedding was only a few days away now.

She sensed Matthew's growing frustration in the waning days before the nuptials. So she had agreed to a short engagement. They had waited long enough for each other. Longer than most. He wanted to get on with things. With, as she remembered him whispering sweetly, in hushed surreptitious tones, "All sorts of things."

Using her ungloved hand she pressed the remaining few wrinkles on the long black silk gown chosen for the evening. Anna had done, as usual, her hair to perfection.

"Thank you Anna." Said kindly but dismissively, Mary's hand swept over the nape of her neck where a curl had loosened. Anna gave a quick nod and left the room.

Mary remained alone with her thoughts. She took in her appearance reflectively in the mirror. Leant forward and carefully placed the pearl and gemstone string around her neck.

Suddenly a small grin skirted across her face.

She recalled again two nights ago when she had walked Matthew towards the door. With a quick glance around, he ventured to give her a cheeky grin and a lingering, very public appreciation of her allure. As a last chance to take advantage of her proximity, his fingers wrapped around her long chain necklace and he gave a gentle tug. His eyes quickly looked up. Hoping she'd understand the action reflected the wanting his body could not yet give her.

She knew. She always got his signals. Looking up from under her eyelashes, her smile radiant yet subtle, she acknowledged the same.

Such secret looks and private signals were all they could get away with. But she did could not always acknowledge them. When she did, such as the afternoon stroll around the grounds where she dared tempt him with the enticing image of carrying her naked up the stairs, a thrill ran through her body.

That night, however, Cora and Isobel stood nearby.

That tug on her necklace, unexpected and intimate in its suggestiveness, left her wanting for more. Mary was surprised the very air did not crackle with flickers and flashes of sparks the amount of barely repressed desire that flowed between them on a simple walk around the estate or saying good-bye in front of her parents and future mother in law.

She had loved him for so long. Loved him even as they, in their mutual powerlessness to communicate their true feelings, rejected each other. Loved him later in secret. Loved him when he was betrothed to another. When she lacked the audacity to "tell him what was in her heart" as Carson had suggested. It had been the wrong time, she temporized. But even then they could not resist the bantering that had become their raison d'etre. "Why don't you want me?" He had spoken off the cuff. A preoccupied, slightly distant look on his face. The face she had gotten used to seeing on him during the war. Haunted, disconnected from her reality.

Her response, "Of course I want you" came, she thought later, just a little too fast. Oh she had almost given herself away then. But he left it hanging, unanswerable at that time in their lives. They both lacked the necessary boldness to do anything about the situation they had found themselves in.

Now was the time to reap their reward. This was the time they had waited for.

They both enjoyed the tingling, goose-flesh inducing atmosphere that each generated in the other. They reveled now that the dark days were (hopefully) behind them. Mary particularly looked forward to enjoying the luxury of open affection without a chaperone hovering over them as a guardian of her sexuality. As if Matthew was a predator. As if she had not already had an encounter such as that.

And survived it through her wits and her intelligence. Others had tried to tell her she was broken, impure. She had believed them and found herself engaged to man willing to keep her 'filthy scandal' in exchange for being a decorous beauty for him to parade around London.

She thought that nothing short of the son of a Greek god would rescue her from this fate.

In a way he had. Matthew was certainly as courtly, as dutiful, and as honorable as some character out of mythology. Yet Mary had discovered, much to her own surprise, she needed no Perseus to save her. In Matthew she had found someone who, while handsome and protective was no storybook prince, or indeed some knight in shining armor, determined to charge in and put her on some kind of pedestal, distant and pure, to be worshipped rather than loved.

He was a man who wanted her for herself. No patronizing forgiveness necessary.

She had discovered something better. Someone willing and wanting to share his life with hers. No games. No social conventionality to mask their true feelings. That rather frightened her. She was unused to such intimacy.

Such games they did play were those of a teasing, bantering nature. He loved her keen intelligence. She loved his ability to spar without backing down. "I'd have to know more about the sea monster in question." She smiled at the thought. They had survived sea monsters and war. Flu epidemics and the pall of death.

They could finally be together. In all ways a man and a woman could be together.

But as she left her bedroom, heading for the staircase Mary knew this evening they would not be allowed to be so exposed. It was to be a family gathering and propriety always trumped in such situations. And besides so many other considerations crowded her mind. Family concerns that Matthew did not have to referee. Just yet. Still not his place to put forth opinions on family disagreements.

Soon. But not now.

Sybil and Tom had arrived earlier that afternoon. Already heavy with child, Sybil had wrapped Mary into a sisterly embrace. Followed her lead into the house for tea and cakes. Like it was any casual visit of a married sister and her spouse.

Like Tom was any husband.

Mary wanted to show support for her dearest sister. But taking in Sybil's wan, tired appearance, Mary's thoughts flashed to whether Sybil was getting enough nourishment. She knew they had no money to return to England. Without aid from an as yet unknown benefactor, they would not have been able to attend the wedding at all.

She could already see the struggle Sybil had to balance the world she knew and the world she now resided. To bridge the yawning gap between her husband's wishes and opinions and those of her family. To support her husband's perspective. To respect it. Even if she disagreed.

Was he worth it? Mary mused to herself, knowing she would never utter such thoughts to Sybil. To give up so much …. For love. Could Mary do that? It had been the root of the argument she and Matthew had under the live oak so many years ago.

That argument still haunted them both. Tugged at their memories of a time when they let happiness slip through their fingers. She had been stubborn. Not wanting to give sway to her family's wishes that she marry the heir. Not wanting to tell him about Pamuk. Not at all sure he wasn't right about her not wanting to follow him into a life dependent upon his wits, his abilities. His prospects, as Rosamund so disdainfully sniffed.

She had accused him of seeing things in black and white. But, even as she said the words, she knew he had no other choice. So much had been kept from him. Even so he had seen through her façade and into her heart. They knew each other. "That's not how we are together," she had said to her mother. The same day as the argument. It had torn her up inside to not give him the answer he wanted. The answer he knew was in her heart.

They had thrown each other over. And had found each other again.

Yet tonight Mary found it resurrecting itself. Not Pamuk, thank God. But issues of money and status. Form and propriety. Social standing and class. They were important to her. It was as natural a part of her being as breathing. It was how she was raised. She had every right to think he would understand that.

But he thwarted her curiosity about the visit of Reggie Swire's lawyer at every bend. Constantly changed the subject. Or seduced her with his hands or his tongue to divert her. It usually work, she rolled her eyes at her gullibility towards his known charms. She would have to be on guard for more of that tonight. For she wanted more information. And was not to be distracted by a… "A pair of fine eyes" as Jane Austen might have put it in a regency novel.

Mary greeted Violet at the dining room door with a kiss. Her grandmother, girded for whatever the evening held, leaned on her granddaughter's arm and they walked together towards the long table. Mary glimpsed Matthew pulling back the chair for his mother and then being led by Carson across the table opposite. Carson then pulled back Violet's seat. Matthew looked slightly put out that Mary was not to be seated next to him but rather on the other side of her mother. But while he gave no outward sign of opposition, she just knew.

She could see that Sybil struggled to keep her conflicted loyalties under control. Tom was still dressed in his traveling clothes. Violet took it all in with one glance. Heard her grunt of disapproval. As she pulled a loose glove back over her elbow, smoothed the dress one more time, and sat down in her chair Mary decided on a plan of action. Mary would give all outward appearance of being fully supportive of Sybil and Tom, keeping any hesitations well within her own somewhat tormented soul. Sybil was smart. Sybil understood the consequences of her actions. Had made her bed and loved her husband. And, in the case of the benefactor and the trip to York, Sybil had gotten her way.

The dinner had been inevitably awkward, with long uncomfortable pauses and stilted conversation. The talk of Ireland and Home Rule so visibly upsetting Carson. Tom's dress and manner speaking for itself. Sybil's futile attempt to reign in her husband's opinions that should never (no matter what the opinion) be spoken so openly at the dinner table. A certain part of Mary admired Tom. He did not care about conventions. Tom would speak his mind. She and Sybil had tried and failed to smooth over the issue of his wardrobe. Tried to diplomatically tell him that he, as well as they, must make concessions, adjustments to this new family dynamic.

Mary knew her words fell on deaf ears. But as such it placed Sybil and Tom's status in the family hierarchy in a kind of limbo.

Yet was that even important any more? Since the war? Such things were all in an indeterminate state right now she acknowledged.

The war had upset the old balance.

A good thing Tom or Matthew would say. She knew that to be right. The sisters' lives had been so circumscribed by society throughout their youth. With the war came Sybil the nurse, Edith the organizer and Mary…. she faltered… what had been her status in the war? She had tried to help out in the convalescent home. Had helped her mother and Isobel in organizing supplies and dealing with household duties.

Had nursed Matthew. Had cleaned up his sick. Had offered herself to him "on any terms." In his pain and humiliation he rejected her. Had wanted "a real life" for her. Not being his nursemaid. Not being the woman and the lover he had envisioned and dreamt of. And besides, he reminded her she was engaged to another.

They were no longer a part of each other's lives. He had been so bitter for so long. It was as if he could no longer envisage a life outside of the war. Outside of the cripple he had become. Outside of the tormented soul she found at Lavinia's graveside.

Now they were to be married. It had all come back full circle. "Are you sure?" "How can I be sure?" "I am sure."

But had she put to bed the doubts of Aunt Rosamund. Could she plunge into this new world, this post war world? Had she really meant on any terms?

As Lady Mary Crawley, eldest daughter of the Earl of Grantham she took for granted that she placed high among county and peer society. And now, as wife of the future heir, she would be Countess one day.

But not quite yet. And where did that leave her now? Wife of the heir to be sure. But also wife to a country solicitor as Granny continued to point out.

Wife to Matthew. Lover to Matthew. Loving, caring, passionate partner of Matthew. The reciprocal love of each other's lives.

Which was most important? Was it sufficient?

This mysterious out of the blue meeting with Reggie Swire's lawyer intrigued her despite herself. Matthew seemed so utterly dismissive, so sourly opposed to the notion that such a meeting would result in some kind of settlement in Matthew's favor. An inheritance? As Lavinia's fiancée. As a future son in law to Reggie. Such a settlement seemed admirable in Mary's eyes.

He would potentially no longer have to work at all. More in keeping to the lifestyle of the class he now inhabited. One that she was accustomed to. She had said to Rosamund that Matthew could rise on his own. Be the next Lord Chancellor of England. Was that just covering up her own insecurities about his lower station? The settlement would allow him to live a life of leisure and luxury.

That was not, however, what she knew he wanted.

A life of leisure and idleness was antithetical to his being. Work was a part of Matthew's identity. His individuality. He prided himself on his wits and his abilities. To deny that would be to deny part of the man she loved.

Granny would say Matthew's middle class morality regarding money got in the way. While they considered talk of money at the dinner table (or anywhere really) vulgar, the upper classes were never opposed to the acquisition of money, no matter where its source.

Mary was sure Lavinia wanted them to be happy. He had acknowledged as much finally. The night of the proposal. When her heart soared to his words. They were not cursed. She knew that. She had given him the time and space he needed to sort that out himself. To come to that conclusion without coercion.

The memory of that night, that dance, that kiss haunted Matthew still. She knew that.

Lavinia had caught them in a fleeting, passionate, intensely private moment. They were blind to the world around them.

Mary's own complicity troubled her. She was engaged to another. Yet took Matthew's outstretched arms. Gripped his hand and his shoulder. Moved her face closer to his as she spoke trying to sound objective, as if they both knew their time had passed, "We were a show that flopped."

A kind of bemused regret that each had moved on.

That was a lie she told herself on days when she was reminded she was engaged to Carlisle. A man who vowed to keep 'her dirty secret safe.'

That sound of resigned regret in her voice triggered his response. His confessional in a voice so raspy, so on the edge of risking it all, of acknowledging a passion for a woman not his fiancée. "Oh God Mary, I am so, so sorry. Do you know how sorry I am?" His words, the sounds in her ear, the faint hitch in the throat after he spoke them.

She allowed her hand to be guided by his fingers to rest upon his shoulder. To touch him, even it was with a gloved hand. She had not touched his body in so many years. Her body shivered, her mind turned off to anything but the sensation of his nearness. Of his face close to hers. Of his chest. Of his moist, hot breath as he leaned in to whisper on her ear

To kiss him. To know it was wrong when she kissed him. To look him in the eye and know he wanted her.

A healing kiss. Forgiving each other. Leading their bodies to each other's lips without thought. Where else would their body's need have taken them?

Until it destroyed them. He refused to forgive himself. And in his selfish wallowing, the self-pity and guilt that plagued his mind, he cursed them both that day at Lavinia's grave side. Along with the ravaging grief of losing a loved one so suddenly, so unexpectedly. A young life amidst all the other unnecessary deaths he had witnessed in the trenches.

As if he was to blame for them all.

At the graveside Mary stood between her former love and the man now her fiancée. Wanting to reach out but sensing his hostility. Heard Matthew's self-torment. "That night when we were dancing and Lavinia came downstairs...she heard. She...she saw...everything.." Determined in his anger to lash out, blind to the repercussions, he spat out "She said to me when she was dying, 'Isn't this better?'" His mind closed within it self. Would not let Mary in.

That, Mary realized at the time, was the heart of his distress. That phrase a cosmic irony that his need to possess Mary would be conceivable only because Lavinia chose to die. A sacrifice to his selfish infidelity.

And they say women are overdramatic, Mary allowed herself an internal eye roll.

Thank God he had shaken off the gloom that descended. He had hurt her with his bitter invective that they were cursed. But grief did such things to people. Brought out their worst as their emotions were on a knife's edge.

By Christmas he was in high spirits. Supporting her in arguments with Carlisle about wedding dates. "We know where we stand… You don't have to marry anyone. You'll always have a home."

It now seemed obvious to her Matthew was trying to work out why she stayed with the man. And could not come up with any viable option other than society was forcing her to marry. And in so many words saying to her, 'it doesn't matter what society wants. I know you. Don't be miserable with that bastard.'

Late, alone, anticipating the night Matthew could finally join her in bed, her mind turned to when exactly Matthew had decided to propose again. She couldn't be sure. In the busy, tumultuous weeks between Christmas and the servants' ball something had changed his mind.

They had been together a great deal in those weeks. He had offered support for the family and, in particular, herself for the trial. Had joked and kidded with her at the New Years shoot. Had confidently, stealthily took up her flank, in front of Carlisle. As if to say, he was there for her. He did not want to shoot the birds. That was obvious. He was doing it out of obligation. And it greatly escalated his satisfaction level to tease with her in front of Carlisle.

But even then the constant was wanting to know if he could help. Could support her? Yet still failing in his attempt to figure out why she was still with Richard.

At the shooting luncheon he had such a happy look when he accepted her olive branch to join him as he placed Lavinia's father's ashes along those of his former fiancée's. Where their mutual need just to be in each other's company was healing.

Yet it was as they stood the either side of Isobel that she first broached the subject of not remaining at Downton. That this might be their last moment together. Bringing a startling finality to his words of being in each other's lives on that rain soaked afternoon.

He had looked so painfully haunted by her words.

That thought seemed never to have occurred to him. That she would leave. Not be in his life. In any capacity. On any term. Was that the moment? When she said she might not be in his life much longer.

He had sought her out that night. Had taken care with his appearance. Then the incident with the dog in the night had upended the evening. On the grounds of Downton, where she at last made her confession. He had demanded to know, what was forcing her to marry Carlisle? Why would she say he would despise her. And when she had told him the secret she had kept from him for seven years, he had looked numb, an unfocused stare his initial response. But it took only a moment before he shook off whatever doubts he held inside, and began to try to understand.

He protectively dismissed her accusations of her fallen status. He had accepted her telling of the story. No demands or questions. His lack of judgment resounded within her soul. His immediate concern was over the fact that she was with Carlisle simply to maintain a life without scandal. That's not living. That's as much a self-inflicted punishment as he had been doing after Lavinia's death.

Not good or helpful in either case.

The only resolution was to move on. To be together.

And in that glorious, intimate moment as the snow silently fell, in the hush of that beautiful night, their lives had joined together.

"You've lived your life and I've lived mine...now I think it's time we live them together." The crunch of snow as he stepped forward, anticipating her acceptance.

So of course she made him wait. "You must say it properly..kneel down and everything..."

He loved her for teasing him to the end... And so he did.

"Lady Mary Crawley... will you do me the honour of becoming my wife."

She had first considered a cheeky, breezy response. But that would not be right. She had to do it properly.

So gazing down at the love of her life she did the thing she told her father she would never do. She told Matthew "Yes." And the world became just the two of them, twirling, kissing, and laughing in the new fallen snow.

That was the memory that touched her as she sat at dinner that night. She loved him.

Mary leaned slightly to her right, looked across her mother, to Matthew. Her beloved fiancé. What thoughts were going through his head, she mused? He seemed as deep in reflection as she was this night.

Maybe engagements did that. To look back. To see what brought them together. To contemplate the future yet to come.

XX

_Mary and Matthew are obviously thinking different things about this evening yet to come. Events of which I promise to get to in the next chapter. They have a lot on their minds. They are both still keeping so much internalized. So much yet unspoken. Why can't these two just talk it out? lol_


	3. Chapter 3

_Ok. Here it is. The last chapter! So worried it won't meet expectations… be kind!_

XX

Tom and Sybil's arrival had gone as well as anyone could have expected. At least as far as Matthew could tell. He had arrived with his mother later in the evening to attend the family dinner at 8pm. And while the return of the prodigal child and her socialist husband were focal point of the evening, Matthew had to admit he had concentrated his thoughts on the best scheme to extract Mary from those family bonds and into his arms.

Seated away from his fiancée at the long dining table, however, Matthew realized that would have to be put on hold.

Tonight Tom Branson needed help.

Matthew, perhaps to his shame, knew very little about the former chauffeur. He had been a pleasant fellow. They had conversed on a variety of topics on the drives back and forth from Crawley House. But that had been, until now, the extent of their relationship.

Now they were to be brothers-in-law. To two of the most wonderful, most amazing … most willful and exciting women he'd ever come across.

How lucky they were.

Matthew shifted in the heavy, velvet backed dining room seat. The chill in the room had nothing to do with the bleak mid-winter weather outside. It was palpable in the atmosphere how uncomfortably the family dealt with having the so called inferior classes at their table.

The war should have changed things. But the aristocracy was ever determined to reassert their crumbling authority. Even though that effort, as Matthew and Tom well knew, would be a hopeless one.

But in the meantime here they were. Violet's insinuation, even suitably couched in friendly tones, that Tom did not conform to English dressing standard started the conversation on the wrong path. Mary's wardrobe comment only made Sybil despair at her sibling's seeming thoughtlessness.

It was all going down rather awful.

Attempts by Cora and Edith to relate to Tom boomeranged to reveal the limited knowledge English aristocrats held of anything Irish beyond formal gardens and country homes.

Matthew rubbed his forehead in consternation. The usual interminable dinner lengthened into infinity.

He would never be alone with Mary at this rate.

Everyone was walking on eggshells. Or, Matthew thought, more like stumbling about waiting to see if a bomb was hidden in the soufflé. Not funny, Matthew chided himself. Irish politics was nothing to joke about. Especially with what the Black and Tans were doing to enforce an English peace in Ireland.

He of any of them could best relate to Tom's outsider status. He remembered all too well his own chilly welcome at Downton. The condescension had annoyed the hell out of him. But he had refused to take the bait. He did not want to give them the satisfaction of knowing just how out of his element he had felt. He later reminded Mary during their first ill- fated proposal of all the "choicest remarks you made about me when I arrived here? Because they live in my memory as fresh as the day they were spoken."

Well, see, he reminded himself. All's well that ends well. He rolled his eyes internally at the irony of that. It only took eight years, a war, and the painful breakup of two other relationships for his engagement to Mary to take place.

Tom was now in the same predicament. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't turn into somebody else just to please you."

Matthew raised an eyebrow at that. "Good luck." He thought. Of course his mother was not helping matters by fueling the fire of revolutionary talk in Tom's soul. God knew he loved her, but she seemed to delight in getting the rest of the family to take offense. His mouth twitched in amusement.

But no, Mother. Really. Not this evening, he wanted to tell her with his eyes.

He had to help the guy out. But even his own words to Tom sounded pompous and condescending. Of course he knew Tom would disagree with keeping the monarchy. His ill-conceived attempt to make some kind of detached conversational point only led to a cutting dismissal on Tom's part.

And poor Carson. He had spent his life in service. To an aristocratic family. To an ideal of the natural order of things. Not to oversee its ruination through the admission of traitors to his values into its midst.

He knew even his own status with Carson rested solely with Lady Mary's acceptance of his proposal. So much of the time he still felt a fraud. This evening proved to him how much he had begun to playact the role of heir rather well. He wore the aristocratic uniform of dinner jacket and white tie. He spoke in the received speech of the aristocracy. The gentlemanly air that belied his sharp wit. A self-effacing courtesy that masked his intelligence.

He had learned to play the game. As will Tom eventually. Play it, but by their own rules. New ones the war had taught this generation. This they would learn how to do together.

Ironic considering Matthew had tried to escape it all for years.

He had tried to fight. From the outset it was all going to be why did I have to take it? And his mother's blunt response "there's no mechanism for refusal."

Oh he had found a way alright. After Mary had rejected his proposal. After he had spurned her apology.

He had found Lavinia. And the method of retreating from all the pain Downton and lost love came clear to him.

A comforting lie he told himself. A pretense. One they had both playacted to perfection. One they both knew in their souls would never come to be.

And it had not. With her death. With his betrayal.

It had all been a stupid, self-inflicted ruse. Mary knew it. And she had forgiven him. And he had come to his senses.

He did want Downton to be his future. Their future.

Mary had stood by him in his worst moments. She entertained with long walks in his wheelchair. Conversations. Jokes. Defended him against Patrick. They had grown so close. Their status in the war had been equal. The convalescing soldier and his care giver.

Their defenses were down. They knew where they stood with each other. Even when they were not officially together. They understood each other.

And then the dance. Their minds, their bodies, their souls made one. Perfection and destruction in a single captured moment.

For it was the start of his wracking guilt that now threatened to deny their happiness.

Must Mary now share in the guilt of him not accepting the money?

God please let Pulbrook be alive!

Their response to the unexpected windfall betrayed the potential fragility of their union. Mary ties to her family and her father becoming more and more obvious. Their generation was caught in between the old and new. He fighting for the future. Mary retreating to the safety of the past.

Robert wanted to show that his world survived the upheaval of the Great War intact. That all was right in his realm. He had his long anticipated marriage between his heir and his beloved daughter. And he had insisted on the presence of the Archbishop of York. Not like that rushed elopement in Ireland but the sanctity of a prince of the church blessing the union. To upend the gossip already spreading like wildfire around society. Around the village.

Mary's idea of marriage conformed to her parents. She loved her sister dearly. But she wanted a grand wedding in the old style. The announcements and pictures in all the society paper. No runaway bride for her. Sybil's inability to afford the fare to her own sister's wedding disturbed Mary's sensibilities. That was made clear at the wedding rehearsal.

It also laid bare one truth of aristocratic life. No one in the family talked of money. It existed. It always existed. And to Mary's relief, it would always exist. To them money was a topic that was vulgar. The aristocracy receives money by virtue of being an aristocrat. Inheriting money added value to the estate and so was status elevating. Matthew's inheritance ups his rank in society.

This, Matthew knew, would made Mary happy.

Mary's fascination with the potential for some Swire inheritance disturbed Matthew more than he cared to admit. Why, he wondered? Was she was still fighting her own internal demons against Rosamund's country solicitor identification of him? The war had seemed to reduce that anxiety. Her "love on any terms…." Surely she meant that? He latched on to her whispering those words as he lay paralyzed and self-loathing in the hospital.

But he knew better. In life there were always terms. And in any relationship compromises. Mary was fighting against her own nurturing. The values by which she was raised. Her very being. Sybil and Tom's hand to mouth existence brought these fears to the forefront.

No doubt she'd fights tooth and nail for Sybil. But in the back of her head is she asking herself...could she do the same?

A chill runs through Matthew as he realizes her answer would be no… "Do you love me enough?" He had asked. To live on his wits. On her support. On their love alone. That conversation haunted him still.

She had never had to choose. He was the heir. And now he had an inheritance.

He told himself she had chosen him for love. But if she could have love and the money… would that make him an even better catch?

Yes he had learned to play their game. But he was his own man. He would not be consumed by this family. He owed them loyalty. He owed them the best he could offer. But as he told his mother that long ago day arriving at Crawley House, "I won't let them change me."

How much time and maturity and a war and a love changed him.

But it was all still there.

"Mother, Lord Grantham has made the unwelcome discovery that his heir is a middle class lawyer and son of a middle class doctor." Letting it go there but all the while thinking "We would not be allowed to have an evening meal with them much less inherit their money or marry their daughters."

And in part they had gotten their way. He had changed. How naïve he had been. "He'll have to limit the damage by turning me into me into one of his own kind."

The reality was he was now a part of it. But that did not mean he'd always agree with their ways. "I have to be myself, Mother. I'll be no use to anyone if I can't be myself."

Of course Mary's "pushing in" unbalanced his pretensions, his sense of self, and an ordinary life from which he had not recovered. Never wanted to recover.

So he determined as the conversation around the table finally came to a blessed end that at no time would he allow the money was not going to be a block to their happiness.

They would decide what do with it in some fashion beneficial to others. A hospital charity? A wounded soldiers fund? St. Dunstan's perhaps which he had visited in 1917 where they were doing so much good for poison gas-blinded soldiers. Or the new reconstructive surgeons working wonders on the faces and limbs of soldiers torn asunder by mines or grenades.

The money would be his atonement to the dead. To stop the haunted, chilled, hollow feeling inside his soul. The feelings he suppressed and denied when around Mary.

The frame of mind he was letting go of because of the happiness Mary brought.

Yes the money would go to a good cause. They would see to that.

Just at that moment the ladies got up to leave the men to port and cigars. Matthew let out a sigh in resignation. Tonight… well he'd just keep trying to put her off the discussion.

During the subsequent tedious forty five minutes or so Robert gave minimum effort to the ritual. Tom held his tongue and mentally bargained with God to find a way to be released from this societal purgatory.

Matthew barely tasted the liquid as his mind drifted to pleasanter images. He conjured a late night rendezvous with Mary, just the two of them. A private moment to satiate the longing need to touch her, the frisson of tension and release. To kiss her long and hard. To feel his fingers rustle her dress as he clung his fingernails into the small of her back.

Tom's deliverance came to him and broke the silence, and broke Matthew's reverie.

"I'll just be a few minutes. I'm going to go say hello to Mrs. Hughes downstairs." At that Tom rose up and placed his napkin on the table.

Robert's eyes shifted and his mouth gawked in total mystification. He would never understand this man.

Matthew's lips twitched and curled into a half smile as he suppressed a snort. He gave Tom a sideways gaze. "Oh yes." Matthew thought at that moment. "We definitely need to get to know each other better."

XX

Mary noticed the after dinner ritual was shorter than usual. And that Tom was missing when Robert and Matthew entered the drawing room. Matthew imperceptibly nodded his head in her direction both as a greeting and a warning not to ask too many questions.

She tried to use the time without Tom's presence to talk with Sybil. It had been clear that Sybil was flailing in her attempt to placate her elders while supporting her husband.

Violet found it all rather amusing it seemed. Though one assumed it was her way of dealing with an uncomfortable situation.

"You must get him to stop calling Granny "milady." Mary said, walking slightly towards Sybil from the drinks cart. "And Mama." But even she was at a loss as to what was the immediate alternative. It seemed premature to allow intimate names. Even Matthew, eight years on, still called Granny Violet "Cousin."

Isobel gamely attempted to play role of go-between. "We need something that doesn't sound too stiff and grand." Even knowing her attempts at mediation usually fell on deaf ears with this crowd.

Robert, already put out by Tom's absence, offered up "Lady Grantham, of course. And he can call me Lord Grantham." If the boy still wanted to play servant downstairs, he could bloody well keep the charade going upstairs as well.

Sybil's lips flattened and her tongue dripped with vitriol, "That doesn't sound stiff or grand at all." She despaired at her father's lack of support. But she too could play his game.

Then Mary's soothing tone, "One step at a time." The two sisters shared a calming glance. Sybil would try to get Mary alone. She desperately missed her beloved eldest sister's late night chats and shared confidences.

Mary turned her eye to Matthew. He had sat quietly, reflectively throughout that entire exchange. She was not even sure he was listening. As usual he had been quiet during the dinner. He always felt put out that he hardly ever sat next to Mary. She tried to explain the seating protocol but he'd inevitably just roll his eyes at the mere notion.

At some point Matthew was going to have to accept the society into which he was marrying. It seemed part of her responsibility as his future wife to coax that along. So here was such an opportunity.

To get some more information about this mysterious meeting with Reggie Swire's lawyer. To see if indeed Matthew was to be heir to yet another inheritance. Something she had no trouble accepting as part of closing off that troubled part of Matthew's life in the best way possible.

"So, what did the lawyer want? I presume he turned up." She glanced down at Matthew as he sat on the sofa sipping his drink. She wanted it to sound unpremeditated. Not about to start some kind of unwanted interrogation.

His mouth puckered slightly as he looked up at the tall beauty that was to be his wife. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he was not going to get petulant nor put out at Mary yet again bringing up the money issue.

"He did...and it's rather complicated. But you were right, it was about Reggie's will." Casually, he took another sip. My God she looked lovely this evening. The low hung neckline, the clingy fabric of her dress. He tried to keep his eyes from lingering on her cleavage. When the hell would everyone just leave?

"So, he's left you something?" Hesitating but insistent. Oh she wanted to know what he was keeping from her.

He was having none of it. His eyes turned away from the delights of her upper body and back to her questioning eyes.

"Never mind that now. Just sit down and tell me about the relations that are coming for the wedding. I want to unscramble them in my head." That would surely take up all the time needed before everyone left to retire to bed.

Mary relented. There would be other opportunities.

XX

Finally he walked Isobel to the waiting car. He said vaguely he'd be along in a few minutes but that there was something he wanted to discuss with Robert.

Matthew pled with eyes for her not to question his motivations. They were rounded, true blue. He glanced down at her through his eyelashes.

Isobel knew full well her son was lying. She merely nodded however, and got into the car.

Matthew's relief escaped his lips in an audible sigh. He closed the door and waved her off.

Returning to the drawing room only to find that Robert had claimed a headache and had gone to bed early. Cora went with him. Tom was also nowhere to be found. Probably took the opportunity to escape to the relative safety of their guest room.

Sybil and Mary were seated on the sofa before the fire. Their conversation muted as he walked in.

Matthew eased down in the chair. He sat to the side facing the warmth.

The two women were now speculating on who could have sent Sybil and Tom the money for the wedding trip.

Matthew realized he was the proverbial third wheel in this sisterly tête-à-tête. So he made a rather obvious attempt at exiting the room by getting up to get a drink and saying the carafe needed more water. And rather than ring for Carson, he just gestured with his hand to Mary and left the room.

She nodded in appreciation.

Mary and Sybil's conversation started back in earnest once Matthew exited the drawing room.

Sybil wanted Mary to understand that she loved being Mrs. Branson and the getting on with life and work just like so many others. While here Tom was the fish out of water and it made him edgy, patronized, and he hated it.

Mary tried to appreciate Sybil's perspective. But the idea of enjoying being just "Mrs….so and so…" reminded her uncomfortably of the conversation with Rosamund. Where she had done her best to defend Matthew and the potential of being just a solicitor's wife. But it had more than disconcerted her. Far more than she had ever been willing to admit.

And had ended up creating him Lord Chancellor to make up for his societal shortcomings.

Sybil leaves Mary alone to go warn Tom of another impending social gathering with the Greys.

Mary sits quietly and sips from her cup of tea.

Matthew returns and places the carafe back on the drinks table. He had retrieved some water from another room, waited for Sybil's exit upstairs, and took the opportunity to finally be alone with Mary.

Mary stands near the drinks table. "Shall I order the car?" She's none too sure why he's lingering. What is he up to?

He pours a whiskey into a tumbler. Says evenly "I don't think I can refuse a lift with Mother and then make the poor man go out again."

Returns to his seat. "I'll walk."

"It might rain." Mary half jokes.

"Then I'll get wet." Said softly, intimately Matthew knows Mary got his implication. That he wanted to be alone with her. That he was going nowhere.

They visibly relaxed.

Mary chuckled. She moves around the sofa regarding at him the whole time. He had taken his seat again half towards the fire, his face thrown into handsome relief as the warm flicker of the flames turned the scene to colors of amber and muted yellow.

Perfect for a seduction. Matthew took his moment in hand. His eyes never left her face. Dark, seductive they took in her beauty.

He moved his arm forward from his body. He shaped his hand palm outward. His fingers reaching towards her, willing hers to grasp his own.

"Now come and kiss me." Intimate, the words tripping unexpected from his lips. He had not rehearsed anything to say. But those were the words that came. And they fully expressed his intent and his longing.

Mary's body involuntarily shuddered in delight as he spoke. He used that silky tone of voice that was meant only for her ears. She remembered him using that tone, whether he knew it or not, in front of Lavinia on more than one occasion. Betraying his truth. Betraying his lust for another.

Now it was theirs alone. His power of speech to drive her mad with desire. He was using it now. Putting her off her game.

He knew what he was doing.

But. …. She'd see about that.

She took a couple of steps towards him, giving every impression of following his lead. And then …

"So, if they can't find Mr… Pillbox…" She folded her arms in front of her as a defense against the overwhelming need of her body to clasp his outstretched hand. "What will you do with the money?"

He would have to play her game for a while. If he was to get his reward. She said the name deliberately wrong. Said to deflect his resistance.

Matthew drops his hand. He gives her a knowing look and closes his eyes with a smile. He turned his head back towards the fire.

So that's how she's playing it. Well he can be as cool as she. "Pulbrook" ever so slightly petulant, "…and...they will find him." God willing, he begged to the heavens.

"But if they don't." Still standing tautly, as if afraid to move one step towards him and break her carefully constructed mask of indifference.

"Then...I'll decide what to do." He thought hard about that. Changing it "…Or we will." Of course Mary would have a say in the division of the money. It would bring them closer together. Or was he simply deluding himself?

Mary nods, although it's hesitant in its affirmation. Yes, Yes telling herself. Maybe that was the best solution. Was she being unreasonable? Letting her own shallow fears overwhelm the greater moral dilemma Matthew was wrestling with. It was so clear it was eating him up inside. She wanted to help.

"Because I can't keep it." His eyes grew distant, reflective. He unconsciously sipped from the tumbler. Wanting to have something to do. Wanting her in his arms. Wanting her….

"No. Of course not." They glance at each other. He put his hand back in his lap. Deliberating whether to try again or change the subject. Was he supposed to be hurt that she rejected him? Offended? She was the most tantalizing of women. Convention demanded they wait to consummate their love. Fine, he had accepted that despite his own burning need to possess her. Society demanded they have chaperones to defend her honor. Acceptable as well. Carson might just come in and take offense at Matthew's very presence. Mary's own troubled past haunted her as he had learned only very recently. God forbid he does anything to make her feel as if he's forcing himself on her.

So he waited. Would she make the next move?

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Mary's tone turned playful. One thing she loved about their relationship was the ease of the give and take. It had been there from the first. He had been positively aroused at the "sea monster" comment and she knew it. He loved it when she took command.

He cocked an eyebrow in her direction. Rounding his tongue around his open lips, he placed the drink on the armrest. Swallowed hard and swung himself out of the chair.

She held out her gloved hand to him. He moved towards her and clasped her fingers into his own with one hand, while with the other he slowly, deliberately slipped her glove down her arm. Touching her skin as he went, the glove came off into his hand. He moved her now naked hand close to his face and kissed the inner palm with his lips. Only just barely touching at first, then taking it all in with a gasp of breath and a pent up grunt of desire.

Her nails tickled and caressed his face as it rested in the clasp of her fingertips.

He looked up at her. Their eyes reveal the mutual desire laid bare. Their lips came together. Tasting. Tickling. Gasping. She felt her body thrum as his tongue explored her eager mouth. This was new. Matthew's boldness taking her breath away.

She pulls away. He leans in again. Hungry. Instinctive for more. She relents.

The kiss is more gentle this time. Sweet. Loving. Teasing the corner of her mouth with his lips. Making her want more. But earning her trust with his restraint.

They release their entangled limbs. The glove, gripped in his fist, now wrinkled and untidy evidence of his need to curb his carnal arousal.

Matthew's breaths were coming out ragged, his mouth dry. His eyes darkened as his pupils dilated from his exertions.

"All for now." Her own voice taking on a silky drawl. "That's just a taste of things to come." She stood away from him, shivering still from the effects of his kiss, not trusting her body to conform to her mind's resolution.

Insensible to all but the immediate words coming from her well-formed and luscious lips, Matthew was punch drunk. Befuddled. Woozy with all the ways this woman made him feel off balanced and weak-kneed. He would love all her changeableness. He would love her always.

The infinite ways they would learn to love each other was their future. He could wait.

"Good night." He said tenderly, giving her back her glove. She stood in the same spot as he opened the door, looked back at her and smiled as he more resolutely closed the door behind him. Put on his coat and walked home in the hail of raindrops and the darkened obscurity that had descended upon the mid-winter evening.

"Maybe it will turn to snow." He mused. The world suddenly being more wondrous, more beautiful than it had ever seemed to him.


End file.
